The Wistful Cipher
The letter lay on the oak desk, its seal broken, the ink still wet with the dampness of the morning fog that clung to the high windows of the Blackwood Estate archive, and you read it for the third time, your fingers trembling not from age but from the cold that seemed to seep out of the paper itself. It was a dismissal, signed by the Board of Governors, citing a "nervous indisposition" and an...
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